From the notebooks of Akhenaton (English)

There must be something I could bringto bear on this long suffering.Some deity I could invent,to sit aloft, omniscient.

Desire is not enough:heaven should be of sterner stuff.Up on my shoulders then, milord,I’ll raise you to your throne, slip in,I’ve organised some cherubimfor you to lean on. Have no fearI’ll dress you well, you’ll not go bareat night. Now clip this bloody trackof griefs about your waiting neck,your tepid cloak of consolationmy pleasure in your vegetation,my thirst for justice behind the doorsof that jewel-encrusted heart of yours.

Enough. Proclaim how good it is,perform your mighty offices,sit and stare for ever more, in state.Begin, it is already late.